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“Waiting on you,” he answered, and we both let out a sigh as rain started knocking lightly on our standing figures.
“Well.” I smiled sweetly, and it took every ounce of energy in me to show him my teeth and dimples. “You have the green light to fall in love with my sister. As I said, nothing will ever happen between us.”
Five seconds later, Millie appeared at the pool, wheeling her bike along. We told her that I fell into the pool and that he jumped in to save me. My cheeks were flushed and the pool wasn’t that deep and I was a great swimmer. But Millie’s eyes were elsewhere—so was her heart—and I had a feeling that even if she caught us with our pants down it wouldn’t matter.
I never made it to my doctor’s appointment that day.
But I did catch pneumonia that granted me a trip to the ER and a four-day hospital stay. I’d missed two important exams and had to spend hours in a percussion vest.
And that following Thursday, when I got back home after avoiding Dean and Emilia, a book was waiting on my pillow, along with a note. The Bronze Horseman in paperback. The yellow Post-It note said:
Fuck society.
Fuck logic.
Fuck culture.
Fuck your illness.
And you know what? Fuck you.
Here’s a book about how shit like ours can work. Read it.
—Dean.
But the next day, I tucked it into the slit in Dean’s locker with a note.
Make her happy. I will kill you if you ever hurt her.
Fiction is magical. Reality is painful.
—Rosie.
We never spoke of this again until Millie ran away.
But I did buy my own copy of The Bronze Horseman.
Reading it.
Memorizing it.
Reciting it.
Never, ever forgetting it.
Eleven years ago
In the end, Millie and I made a pretty decent couple. Before she pissed all over it, that is.
I didn’t put a name on what we were or weren’t. Was it love? Probably not, but I cared for her and enjoyed her company. Only thing was, I enjoyed her sister’s company more. But it was becoming less and less of a problem, since Baby LeBlanc took a step back, and even though she never explicitly said anything, I knew she was avoiding me. She made things simpler.
But Vicious didn’t.
Notorious for making things messy, he did what he was expected to do—he ruined.
Vicious tried to get back at me for dating Emilia LeBlanc in many ways. Sadly for the fucker, I wasn’t a little pushover like his fanboys. We got into fights—physical and verbal—every other week over the subject, but I knew breaking up with Millie would leave her exposed to him, and I didn’t want him touching her. He bullied, taunted, and hated her. He had enough time to ask her out. Now she wanted to be with me, and Rosie pushed me straight into her arms.
And more than I wanted to please Millie, I wanted to please Rosie. Really fucking bad.
Eventually, Vicious did manage to get back at me in a way that cracked through my shield. Turns out that shit was thick, but not unbreakable after all.
He kissed Rosie.
He threw a party at his place, and we were cooling down from almost beating the hell out of one another. That wasn’t out of the ordinary. What was out of the ordinary was the way he made me taste my own medicine for the very first time. And let me tell you, it was nasty.
I was walking to his kitchen to get myself a bottle of water after popping a Xanax to take the edge off. Tanked as fuck, I knew I needed to go check on Millie. Last time I saw her at that party, she ran back to the servants’ house looking upset because of Vicious.
I bumped shoulders through masses of sweaty, glittery bodies, and when I finally got to the fridge, I found out Spencer ran out of water. I looked around—the kitchen was a colossal, cherry-wood and dark room better fitted in Buckingham Palace. Everywhere you looked, there were people. A couple making out against the sink, a bunch of ballers doing shots on the island, and girls snorting the Ritalin I brought over that night. I pushed two of the snorting girls away and swung the pantry door open, knowing where the bottled water was kept.
Turning on the light, I froze in place.
Vicious was there, hovering over Rosie like darkness that was about to swallow her whole. His lips were on hers and her lips were on his, and I wanted to rip them away from each other and tear his body to shreds, organ by organ.
They kissed. Her eyes were closed. His weren’t. His arm rose, and he flipped me the finger, his busy lips smirking as he grabbed her waist with his free hand, jerking her body to his. There was no passion there. No lust. The whole thing looked fucking technical and cold. She deserved so much more.
